The Ghost that Haunted Me: Revamp
by officialthomaspaine
Summary: REVAMP: Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley is slowly dying from his lack of visible compassion. Mckinley Front is slowly dying from her parents' divorce. When a random turn of events sends Mckinley into Modern Warfare 2, what happens? M for violence/language/smut. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter One

**The Ghost that Haunted Me**

(Revamp)

A _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B

Author's Note: Well, this has been one heck of a _long and winding road_, Mr. McCartney. Thanks for the challenge.

First off, I must apologize for my behavior in the past. I can't really give any excuse for how I behaved, but I can assure you that I have grown a great deal in the past year or so, and I've come to terms with my maturity and my writing capabilities.

Second, I'd like to thank the multiple people who have messaged me over this elongated span of time, either wishing me well, offering some much-needed advice, or just talking some sense into me. I love and appreciate all of you. Thank you!

And last, I must thank the three most important people in the world: Maegan, Tori, and Hope. Without you, there would be no _The Ghost that Haunted Me_. I love you, very much!

One more thing: Despite multiple protests against the callsign "Queen," I have decided to keep it. Mckinley will no longer be a 'Mary-Sue,' but her name stays. That name is written on every slip of paper in my writing binder, and I, in no way, intend to succumb to those who wish to change her.

With that said, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy the revamped first chapter of _The Ghost that Haunted Me_. I sure enjoyed writing it!

Cheers,

SouthernImagineer/ecto1B

* * *

><p>Chapter One.<p>

_"You can't run away from trouble. There ain't no place that far."_ - Uncle Remus

"It's like you're addicted to the game, Mickey. You've beaten the campaign, what, four times this week? _And_ you've brought your online time total to three days." With a slap of his palm to his forehead, the teenage boy collapsed onto the couch and trained his eyes on the TV before him. "I'm shocked you aren't sick of it by now, and that your hands aren't sore from playing so much." He glanced over his sister's shoulder to see her fingers rapidly beating against the controller's buttons, and a sigh escaped his lips. "_Complimenti_, Mckinley, you're insane. Be grateful Mamma's too busy to notice how long you've been playing."

When she didn't respond, he continued. "You know, if Mamma came downstairs right now and saw you wasting away like this on the Xbox, she'd have a fit. Papa would, too." Aidan paused to watch the cutscene as another level loaded. A few firm, older voices blared from the TV speakers during the scene, triggering another thought in the boy's mind. The certain voice he noticed belonged to a British gentleman, and that, alone, was enough to remind him. "… Does this have anything to do with your obsession with that 'Ghost' character?" he inquired offhandedly.

It was this question that finally stirred his sister from her silence. She paused the game, turned around, and met her brother's brown gaze with her gray one.

"It's not an _obsession_, Aidan; it's a _fascination_. A genuine _fascination_ with the quality of his character." She spoke matter-of-factly, compelling the boy to crack a smile. "The comic books gave me insight into his background, the background that occurred _before_ the game even started. You can't blame me for taking a liking to him after reading." Shifting her head to the right, Mckinley let her blood-red hair collapse lazily over her shoulder, and instantly a hand was there. With almost surgical precision, she scouted for knots in the tangled, unkempt mess she hadn't combed in days. "I know I've been playing this game a lot lately, but it _helps_, Aidan." Gently, her tone loosened, brimming on the edge of a whisper. "With Mamma and Papa yelling so much, I needed some place to go to, and Call of Duty seems to be that place."

"Would it kill you to take a shower, though?" Aidan waved his hand in front of his nose. "Before you start playing the next level?" He didn't seem at all affected by the mention of their parents and their quarreling; he'd disregarded it completely, in fact. Mckinley wondered if he'd become accustomed to it by now. Because of this, she smothered a snappy comeback from misfiring in his direction. She knew better. Instead, Mckinley heaved herself up from the carpet and took a deep breath. The Xbox controller toppled from her hand, landing beside her bare feet.

"Yeah, I probably should go wash up," she admitted at last.

"Good. You smell." Aidan leapt from his seat on the couch, following Mckinley to the stairwell.

"And what are _you_ planning on doing?" His older sister froze on the first step. "While Mamma and Papa bicker about nonsense, where are you planning on finding sanctuary?"

The fifteen-year-old scrunched up his face in contemplation. "I think I'll go help Gladys and Paul clean the guest house."

Mckinley smirked. "You just love vacuuming, don't you?"

"It's my favorite hobby!" Lightly punching Mckinley's shoulder, Aidan grinned. "Now go shower, before you stink up the place. The smell is burning my eyes!"

As Mckinley lashed out to counter his playful punch with one of her own, the boy dashed past her, hastened up the stairs, and vanished behind the basement door on his way to the kitchen. Mckinley watched as he did this, for she was unable to suppress a smile as she mused over her brother's incongruous jollity. How could the boy be so lively when turmoil transpired close by? From her spot on the staircase, she could hear the voices of her parents clashing with each other, one rising at some points, and the other countering vehemently at others. Did Aidan not hear the altercation? Would he not acknowledge it like she did? Or was this his way of handling things?

Unintentionally, Mckinley sucked in a thick breath of air as she mused, and instantly gagged. Aidan was right; she _did _smell. A shower was inevitable. There would be time to chew over her family's predicament while becoming clean. Still weaving her fingers through her hair, Mckinley padded up the basement steps and then up another flight of stairs to reach her bedroom. The door locked, she stepped into the adjoining bathroom, stripped down, and let the water from the showerhead coat her body.

A shower was just what she needed before confronting her favorite Call of Duty level, Takedown, for the hundredth time that week.

* * *

><p>When the shouting managed its way through the walls of her bathroom and even past the roar of the water, Mckinley knew there was no use hiding from the truth any longer. Of course she'd known the dangers of leaving her basement retreat when she'd ventured upstairs; she'd only hoped her parents would restrain themselves for a short while when they noticed the presence of their eighteen year old daughter.<p>

Needless to say, they hadn't.

Sighing, she shut the water off. How long would they continue this noisy activity before they finally split? A divorce was inevitable now, for they had been bickering for months on end, with no signs of surrender or compromise. Was it too hard to pick up the pieces and move on, for the sake of their children and solid lifestyle?

Mckinley doubted they'd even consider a simple separation. No, her parents were too thick-headed for that. Her mother, a popular fashion model in the 80s, had been raised on Italian family values so durable, there had yet to be a divorce in her branch of the family tree. And her father, a respected photographer who spent his childhood in the dark backwinds of New York City, also grew up with strict parents who'd taught him to never concede, to never let anyone take advantage of him. There was no middle ground for them to meet on, no 'halfway' point where conflicts ceased and their love for each other reined superior.

_No use denying it_.

This was why she had to escape. The cocoon she'd constructed for herself—an enclosure of guns, guts, and glory, thanks to the multiple worlds of Call of Duty—was just enough protection to deflect the outer battles emerging in her reality. When shrouded in said barrier, Mckinley wasn't obligated to reflect on her parents and their ceaseless feuding. While encased, her mind traveled to distant lands and conquered the battlefield.

To her, the brutality denoted an opposing meaning: peace, for peace, in her eyes, was anything that could shield her from the real world, and video games did just that.

Donned in a tank top and a pair of comfy sweatpants, Mckinley bolted back down the two flights of stairs to reach the basement's solace. Once far enough away from any noise, Mckinley took a seat on the floor in front of the game room's television, snatched the Xbox controller from the ground, set her iPhone earbuds in her ears, and turned the console back on. The screen woke with its usual flash of color, and soon the Modern Warfare 2 title screen appeared.

"Back in Black," Mckinley's favorite song to listen to while playing Takedown, blared from her headphones. Bobbing her head in rhythm, Mckinley selected the level she wanted to play, and then her preferred difficulty, Hardened. Quickly, she let herself become immersed in the fantasy of it all while the level loaded, and the bitter thoughts about her parents' fighting disintegrated.

The game, and Mckinley: two entities existing in the same locale, prevailing alongside one another, creating a storyline together. It was harmonious oneness, driven by the incredibly human need to accomplish tasks, receive recognition, and achieve victory.

In Mckinley's eyes, the balance there was indestructible.

The game, however, had other ideas.

* * *

><p>"Perhaps third time's the charm, eh?"<p>

"_We'll have to hope it is. It could get nasty if they realize we've tailed them for the past hour._" There was a pause, but it was insignificant and quickly ignored. "_What's it like on your side of town?_"

"Nothin' but a few nutters trying to sell us shit and the occasional BOPE." Simon relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. "There's actually a lot of them blokes here, patrolling and questioning some poor Yanks here as tourists. Think it's settled, though. They got let off." He rolled the radio over in his free hand, almost skillfully, as if he'd done the same countless times before. And, frankly, he had. "You wanna go ahead with the rendezvous? Go ahead with Plan B? _If_, in fact, you don't have the right one this time."

Simon could almost hear his captain smile through the radio. "_You know I don't think that far ahead, mate._" Sighing, the captain paused. "_Yeah, start driving over here. If they don't find him on this round, then we'll rendezvous and come up with a different strategy…_"

"'Tavish."

"_What_?" Another obvious smirk crept into the man's voice.

"You don't seem at all willing to end this now, do you? This search for 'im." It was apparent in the way MacTavish spoke; his dislike of the current situation came off his sentences in evident waves, and Simon was easily able to pick them out. "You wanna keep looking."

"… _How in the world did you come to that conclusion, Ghost_?"

"You paused. You trailed off. I'm not _stupid_, 'Tav. I know when you're pissed. When you want to be the goddamn hero." Although they were communicating though the radio, Simon shrugged his shoulders in an effort to feel more involved in the conversation. He felt more secure that way. "I mean, if you wanna be the one going through alleys and whatnot, be my guest."

"_Y'know what, Ghost?_ _Fuck you._"

Simon laughed. "Hidin' sarcasm has never been one of your strong points, has it, 'Tavish?" The captain only grumbled in response. "We'll regroup with you in a few minutes. Keep followin' the van, I guess, and we'll see where that leads."

"_Now when did you become captain, giving out orders and shit_?"

"Hardy-_fucking_-har. We'll see you in a few, ya numpty."

"_All right. Over and out_."

As the conversation between he and MacTavish ceased, a new one sprouted in the backseat, ever quiet, but steadily rising in volume. Before it got out of hand, Simon turned to face the two men behind him, also addressing the man in the passenger's seat. It had become the appropriate moment to remind the three soldiers in the van with him—Sanderson, Rolls, and Litsch—of their target and the protocol involved with the mission.

Humorous, amicable Simon was gone. Severe, compliant Ghost had comfortably taken over his body, like so many times before.

It was nothing new.

"Keep quiet, the lot of you," he began with a curl to his lip. "Fingers on the trigger at all times, but keep the gats outta sight from civvies. We don't wanna give them any more reason to notice us." With two glove-covered fingers, the man made a concise but clear motion in the air beside his temple. "Remember the plan. Our first objective is to locate Rojas's assistant, and if we're lucky, he should lead us to the dealer himself."

The bearded man in the backseat, Tristan "Meat" Litsch, shifted slightly, perhaps out of habit. "Background information on Rojas?" he prompted in his no-nonsense voice.

"Munitions clerk for the KGB-turned influential overseer of trade between the Far East and South America. Went freelance in the late nineties and then began dealing with terrorist organizations and trafficking." The words effortlessly rolled from Simon's tongue as he recited the information given to him by MacTavish a day earlier._ Has it really become this easy? Saying this shit? _"Now he's an arms dealer. Supposedly furnished the assortment of weaponry for the massacre."

"A former munitions clerk for the KGB?" the second man in the backseat echoed. "How did we get so lucky?" With an amused snicker tracing the fresh lines on his face, David "Royce" Rolls—accurately nicknamed after the famed car company—ran a hand beneath his camouflaged boonie hat and let his hair fall to the brim of his nose. Because of his evident youth, the man was teased profusely because of this asymmetrical hairstyle and choice of headwear, but he had no objection to this treatment (after all, Simon was one of the main supporters of this brotherly ridicule, and Royce couldn't exactly argue with his XO). He credited his hat to the team's former captain, Captain John Price, and sported the item frequently on missions and while relaxing on the base. This time was no different, as he'd insisted on carrying the hat atop his head while on the mission to locate the Task Force's new target.

"This guy'll be easy to snag," Royce continued confidently, "and when he sees us coming for him, he'll shit his pants and talk. They always do." His fingers latched onto the brim of his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, as if to give an impression of firm intimidation. "And once he coughs up Makarov's location, we go in and smoke the bastard for everything he's done to us."

"I wouldn't underestimate Rojas if I were you, David," Meat warned him. "A desk job doesn't guarantee a person's inability to hold his own against us. _And_ he has the support of the local militia. It's not going to be as easy as you claim it to be." Much unlike Royce, Meat was extremely structured in his mannerisms and conduct, and this almost polar-opposite factor was enough to create a quiet friendship between the two men. Sometimes Simon understood it, and other times he didn't.

Another voice joined in to the conversation, this one belonging to Gary "Roach" Sanderson," the team's sergeant and surprisingly one of Simon's favorite soldiers. There was something about the man that reminded Simon of his younger years, of how he acted when first enlisting in the SAS, and that, alone, was enough for him to hold the man in high esteem. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, and had been quietly mulling over a Brazilian newspaper for the majority of the time (not that he could read it; the one or two Portuguese words he knew were no help; he only studied the pictures). Now, he let his opinion join the others. "Meat's right. This mission's gonna be a pain in the ass. Why else would the captain have brought so many of us?"

Royce, annoyed by the counters against him, crossed his arms across his vest and directed his gaze out the window. "My mistake," he groused. "Just trying—"

"_Ghost, the plates are a match_," came MacTavish's voice from the handheld radio, interrupting Royce's grumbling and allowing the focus to return to the situation at hand. Meat, Royce, and Roach went silent, while Simon instantly spun around in his seat, placing one hand on the steering wheel and another at the device on his shoulder.

"Copy. Any sign of Rojas's right hand man?" Simon glanced back to again meet the eyes of his companions. "Ready your weapons. This could be it, lads."

Roach, now fiddling with his ACR, lowered his eyes. "Where is the rendezvous point, sir?" he asked, almost a bit hesitantly.

Simon, still awaiting a reply from MacTavish, snatched the unfolded Rio de Jainero map from the dashboard and handed it to the sergeant. "As of right now, we meet at Hotel Rio, but it's not set in stone. Depends on if this is, in fact, the guy we're lookin' for."

MacTavish spoke again. "_Negative. They've stopped twice already_. _No sign of him_." He paused, and Simon felt himself holding a breath, riddled with anticipation. The radio still buzzed beside his ear… until MacTavish came back, booming and furious. He sounded slightly distant, as if addressing someone on his side, but his words rang loud and clear. "_Hang on… hey! What're you doing? Close the door! Driver, what's she doing? Driver!_" Another moment of static gave Simon—and perhaps his fellow soldiers, as well—a chance to analyze what was going on. "_What is she—Queen! Close the damn door before… wait, Ghost, they've stopped again. Standby_."

Simon sat up in his seat, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. The name that had been mentioned was not one he liked hearing. If that woman had somehow compromised the mission… "_Fuck_, 'Tavish, what the bloody hell is going on? One minute you're—"

"_Got a positive ID_!" MacTavish exclaimed, ignoring the lieutenant's outcry. "_Whoever these guys are, they're not happy to see him_." A rustling was heard through the speaker. "_Driver, hurry up and pull her back inside before they see her. She can upchuck later_."

"Upchuck?" Simon grabbed his M4A1 Carbine from the dashboard, unlatching the safety. "Shit."

"Maybe Queen got sick?" Royce suggested, also going for his gun.

"She was feeling fine this morning," Meat said quickly, rolling his eyes. "If something were wrong, she'd have told Doc or Chemo about it."

"I don't think she's sick." Biting his lip, Roach cast a glance at Simon, and Simon returned the gaze, peering over the rim of his glasses. A glint of understanding wove within their eyes.

_Allen. Damn woman had to make relationships in the Rangers._

Royce, however, was oblivious to their mutual recognition. "Then… why is she vomiting all over the street?"

Before anyone could answer, or even reply back in a way that would shut him up, MacTavish hollered again. This time, warfare's theme music thundered behind him, brisk shots ringing into the air. Multiple voices, tinged with Portuguese, screamed battle cries, while the sound of a pistol rocketed near the receiver.

Simon could only pray that the fired bullets were not hitting home.

"_Ghost, we have a situation here! Driver! Queen! Get your bloody heads down!_" At these words, Simon motioned to the three men in the car. He readjusted the sunglasses and balaclava on his face, fixed his headphones, tugged his backpack onto his back, and in mere moments, the squad of men had exited the vehicle and begun a hurried jog down the alley where they'd parked, heading towards Hotel Rio, their guns clutched between gloved hands. When they emerged into the streets, Simon noted the wide eyes and fast feet of nearby civilians, men and women who scurried past them with fear on their faces.

_Christ, they must've heard the gunfire. That's problematic. Nothing good can come when there are civvies lurking about._

MacTavish continued to shout. "_He's getting away!_ _Queen, Chemo, Rocket, let's go!_" More gunshots screamed, some closer to the radio than before. "_Ghost, our driver's dead! We're on foot! Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can_!"

"Roger, we're on our way!"

Simon was livid behind his mask. He knew _exactly_ what had jeopardized the mission. As he ran, he could feel a violent type of rage seethe into the crevices of his insides, flooding his lungs and encompassing the powerful muscles that formed his heart. Yet, despite the fierce tantrum vying to escape, Simon remained mindful of the other emotion targeting his core. For it, too, was not to be underestimated, and like the woman that had caused this lethal pandemonium to ensue, he would continue to loathe it as long as he lived.

* * *

><p><strong>One last final note: Because of time and plot holes, I had to make it so that Mckinley is from the year 2009 (That's the only way my idea seems to work!). Hope that isn't a pain to anyone, going back in time like that! Just keep that in mind as this story progresses. Thanks!<strong>

**(Edit****)** Whoops! Roach isn't an FNG. My bad. Fixed.


	2. Chapter Two

**The Ghost that Haunted Me**

(Revamp)

A _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B

Author's Note: I'm praying that something good will come out of all the queasy parts I had to write in this chapter. I think Mckinley is more likable this way.

* * *

><p>Chapter Two.<p>

_"Fear makes us feel our humanity."_ - Benjamin Disraeli

Only moments ago, the settling Palm Beach nighttime had squinted through her basement's windows. The slow chirping of evening animals and insects echoed in the backyard, providing her video game oasis with a lighter, subtler tone, and the shrill scream of AC/DC's lead singer, thundering in the depths of her ears, had shattered the injustices and horrors of the real world.

Now, the peace was over.

She only had to blink once for everything to occur. One second, the dim game room shone before her, and the next, the music vaporized, the animals outside deviated their tones to match the sounds of a busy city, and the ground she sat upon rose, molded, and locked itself into the form of a scratchy car seat. The clothes on her body mutated—her pants became khaki, smothered in pockets; her tank top grew sleeves that reached just below her shoulder; her bare feet grew socks and thick-soled shoes, rising to hide behind the hem of her trousers; gloves appeared on her hands, gloves that were tightly woven about the handle of an assault rifle, and her hair pulled itself back, securing into a tight bun on her head. Trees, sidewalks, and shanty buildings sprouted along her line of sight, and screening her from these landmarks was a van, emerging and rising on every side of her until she was contained within the beast's belly.

A pathetic sound bubbled in her throat, emerging as a faint squeak.

"Holy shit."

Her eyes scanned frantically around the scene that had just presented itself to her: the small van, chock-full of powerfully built men (one at the wheel, and three others crowded in the backseat), was drifting down a street tinged with sunlight; the shadows of palm trees capering about the asphalt below them. The signs lining the road were written in a language that resembled Spanish, but was plainly not, and the people strolling beside the car were darkly tanned. They gave the moving car strange looks, as if it stuck out in their foreign, tropical society.

It was then that everything clicked. She didn't fathom how; it just happened. For there she was, seated inside a car that was driving down the roads of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There she was, with an ACR on her lap and her mass of blood-red hair piled high atop her head. There she was, strategically placed inside a scene that was all-too familiar to eighteen-year-old Mckinley Front.

Takedown.

A dream. It had to be a dream. What else could it have been? This was the real world, not some convoluted dimension where people traveled through time and space. This wasn't _Back to the Future_; there was no DeLorean that was able to transport people to the future—let alone into the center of a video game.

"Holy shit. Holy… _holy_… holy shit."

Before Mckinley could register anything else, before she moved a muscle, before she took her first breath of Brazilian air, before she could even _blink _again, a raw, dislocated sensation rocketed inside of her torso, making her stomach lurch back and forth like a tree swing on a windy day. The muscle within her tightened, pitched, and clenched into a ball, extracting every inch of her fear and anxiety into her throat. This inescapable movement gave Mckinley enough reason to drop the object in her hands—the ACR she'd noticed earlier—and swing open the car door, despite the fact that the vehicle was still in motion. She leaned over, shut her eyes, and with a subtle moan, Mckinley greeted the paved streets with a great deal of her sick.

"Queen!"

The voice, lusty and overcrowded with authority, was still not enough to pull Mckinley from her vomiting. In fact, its sound seemed to make things worse. Her fingers tightened around the door handle until her knuckles went white as chalk. Another heave of her stomach grew in strength. A shudder traveled through her body as her eyes met those of a man on the street, a pedestrian, an innocent bystander, a man _inside a video game_, and sickness overcame her once more. And once more, it was unavoidable, unstoppable, and _extremely_ embarrassing.

"Hang on… _hey_!" Urgency now sparked alongside the Scottish accent coming from behind her seat. In desperation, Mckinley tried to block out the yelling accompanying her in the car so as not to vomit again. She knew that voice. She knew who he was the very moment he started speaking. It petrified her. "What're you _doing_? Close the door! Driver, what's she doing? Driver! What is she—Queen! Close the _damn_ door before… wait, they've stopped again." The car pulled to the side of the road and came to a halt. "Standby."

Could the man not shut up? Every word that escaped his mouth made Mckinley feel sicker and sicker. She knew who he was without even turning around; yet, she hadn't the heart to believe it was true. It was Captain MacTavish, wasn't it? The leader of the Task Force 141… no, it couldn't be. He was a fictional character, devised by the minds over at Activision and Infinity Ward. Had she really just opened her eyes to the inside of a video game? Or was this an illusion, a cleverly detailed dream that her brain had designed to make her suffer?

Her stomach reeled again, but the motion resulted in nothing but a handful of dry heaves as she continued to study the pavement. She refused to look up, refused to grasp the tangled idea that she could very well be incarcerated within the bounds of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. Regardless of her knowledge on this particular mission, regardless of the looming incident that would kill off Driver and send the car's multiple passengers hightailing it down the street after a fleeing target, Mckinley constrained her thoughts and emotions and simply let her body continue to be sick. Things would be easier for her that way.

"_Fuck, 'Tavish, what the bloody hell is going on?_" A Brit, most likely the one MacTavish had been occasionally addressing, raised his voice as he bellowed through the radio's speaker. "_One minute you're—_"

"Got a positive ID!" the captain interrupted his comrade. "Whoever these guys are, they're not happy to see him." There was a rapid tapping on Mckinley's seat, a tapping that evolved into a frantic shaking of the leather. "Driver, hurry up and pull her back inside before they see her. She can upchuck later." Someone reached over, grabbed her shoulder, and tried to pull her out of the car doorway. When she retaliated, the grip around her arm tightened, and she was hauled upright in spite of her protests, door in hand. It shut with a mighty slam.

Mckinley hardly had time to think, or to let her mind catch up with the Takedown scene, before gunfire rang through the air. At the sound, Mckinley balked, reflexively allowing her eyes to dart to the source of the strident noise, and she was terrified to see a dark-skinned man on the sidewalk staring directly at her.

She was even _more _terrified to notice the pistol in his hand.

"Ghost, we have a situation here!" MacTavish, crying out at the top of his lungs, lunged forward, and at once, Mckinley was forcefully keeled over, her head ducked beneath the dashboard. She felt his palm digging violently into her lower back to keep her there while the bullets discharged around the van.

She screamed.

"Driver! Queen! Get your bloody heads _down_!" The hand at her side pressed so deep into her skin, Mckinley was sure it would bruise. And if that, alone, wasn't enough to make her lose her composure, the blood that spattered the dashboard and the shattered glass windows sure did.

"Driver! _Shit_."

Mckinley refused to see what the captain was so mad about. _No, not in real life. I will not see brains up close and personal. I will _not_._ She wasn't stupid; she knew what had just happened to the man in the driver's seat. She knew it was his blood that now painted the van's interior. It was like jelly, the way it clung to everything, the way it airbrushed itself across every splintered pieces of glass in sight—her stomach, spurred by the sight of the blood trickling down the dashboard, strangled itself so tight, Mckinley had no choice but to empty what little contents she had left onto the floor of the van.

_How in God's name is this happening? I don't want this! I never did! I never asked for this! Sure, I love the game with all my heart, but in no way did I ever hope to be thrown inside! _When the gunfire redirected somewhere else, Mckinley sat up, whimpering, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. _How could anyone in their right mind want to be faced with this shit? What could possibly happen next?_

Quite ironically, Mckinley received a very rapid answer.

"He's getting away! Queen, Chemo, Rocket, let's _go_!" MacTavish yelled. The side doors unlatched, and three figures emerged from the car in haste, one dashing to the passenger's side and throwing the door for Mckinley as she stumbled out after them. This man was young and tan, with flashing green eyes and unruly black hair; two patches were visible on his vest, one being the Canadian flag, and the other, a medic's logo.

_Well, I don't know you. You're probably one of the generic soldiers that fights alongside MacTavish. If only I could look at you and see your callsign like in the game. Maybe then I wouldn't want to puke all over you._

"We have to get moving, Queen," he said, retrieving her fallen ACR from the van and stuffing it into her hands. "Come on! MacTavish isn't gonna wait for us!"

With that, he took off after the others, and Mckinley had no choice but to follow suit.

As she breathlessly staggered behind him, her legs wobbling and her head aching, her eyes stinging with freshly procured tears, and her throat fighting to keep her stomach under control, Mckinley let a single, crippling thought flash through her mind.

_Who the hell is Queen?_

* * *

><p>With Roach, Meat, and Royce hot on his tail, Simon plowed past the Hotel Rio's glass entrance. A bus sat on the corner, obstructing his view of the street and of his possible backup, but somehow, he knew MacTavish was there, and that the captain had also seen Rojas's assistant vanish into the nearby backstreet. Even so, Simon felt it necessary to announce his observation, just in case the men behind him had not.<p>

"He went into the alley!" he notified the team through the radio.

"Non-lethal takedowns only!" MacTavish fired back, just as he emerged from behind the bus and into Simon's line of sight. "We need him alive!"

Simon dipped his head in response and matched the man's strides until they were side by side, plunging through the alleyway in near-perfect synchronization. Guns held tightly to their chests, the captain and his enigmatic lieutenant led the way for their soldiers: Roach, Chemo, Rocket, Meat, Royce… and _Queen_?

Simon faltered slightly when he glanced back and noticed the woman was last in the pack, running with one hand over her mouth and the other clutching her ACR against her stomach. Her face was extremely green—proof that she'd been vomiting?—and, for some strange reason, she looked… _different_ to him. Perhaps it was the lighting, or perhaps it was because the two of them hadn't spoken for three entire months (after their last altercation, Simon had no intention of conversing in a civilized manner with her ever again). Her countenance, though stained a sickly green, appeared younger, with less lines and pockmarks than he'd remembered… or was it just his mind playing tricks on him?

_It's the adrenaline. It's making you loony_ he scolded himself. _Focus on taking out Rojas's assistant, would you?_

When he redirected his focus to the alley, he spotted the escaping target heading for the neighboring favela. Inwardly, Simon cursed. If he managed to escape, it would be the end of all hope. There was no way the Task Force could track him down in that labyrinthine slum. They had to act fast if they were going to stop him from disappearing.

MacTavish practically read his mind when they neared the middle of the alleyway. By then, the entire team—including a wheezing Queen—had reached their position.

The captain's words, though initiating a method of attack, startled Simon.

"Queen!"

Simon froze. _Are you out of your mind, 'Tavish? She's ill, for chrissakes! She's incapable of—_

"Take the shot! Go for his legs!"

The woman, coming to a stop beside Simon, looked about ready to cry. Her face contorted with horror at MacTavish's sudden request. "But… but…" she tried, gasping for air. "Shit, I don't… know… I don't…"

Simon would not have it. He was outraged that MacTavish had given such a critical task to one so evidently unwell, and that because of it, their target would escape to fight another day.

To uphold the team, Simon had to do it himself.

"He's down."

MacTavish proclaimed these words, and Chemo and Meat raced down to apprehend the fallen man. When the captain raised his eyebrows in Simon's direction once the masked man had lowered his gun, Simon would not look at him. Instead, he trained his gaze on the Task Force's only female member and prepared himself to let her know just _how_ angry he was with her.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Furious beyond rational thought, Simon stormed across the width of the alley and got right into the woman's face. He ripped his sunglasses from his eyes to further emphasize his fury, glaring condescendingly. His blood ran searing hot beneath his skin as he yelled, but that did nothing to dissuade him from pressing on. "Why didn't you shoot him? When your CO gives you an order, you listen!"

Queen remained silent, only sliding to her knees, wide eyed.

"I'm asking you a question, corporal!" Simon thundered. "What, you're plannin' on snubbing me, too?"

"_Ghost_!" There was a firm hand on his shoulder and a Scottish-accented voice laced with authority in his ear. "It's my mistake. It slipped my mind that she was sick. She's quite skilled at non-lethal shots, and I assumed she could carry out with this one. There's no need to berate her." Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw MacTavish give him a look, and then relocate his inspection to the woman hunched on the pavement. "She puked a lot when we were driving. Chemo's gonna have a look at her."

Suddenly, Queen spoke with what little energy she seemed to have left. "No, no… it's my fault. I'm sorry, I just… I can't…" she trailed off, coughing and clutching her chest. The ACR she'd been holding clattered to the ground. "I'm… s-sorry…"

MacTavish released his hold on Simon's vest and bent down so that he was eye-level with the woman while his lieutenant watched him. Simon's arms were crossed across his chest, and his teeth were gnashed behind the skull adorned balaclava he wore. He saw no reason to sympathize with her, yet, the more than companionable captain felt otherwise. It wasn't as if Simon _had_ no kindness; he only believed the woman to be unworthy of such compassion at the current time. Was it only because of their quarrel three months ago that he felt this way?

"Chemo's on his way over here to check you out," MacTavish said to her, disrupting Simon's rumination. "Do you think you'll be okay during the rest of the mission? We could try to find you someplace to rest, if you'd like."

Queen visibly gulped. Still shaking, she rose from the ground and picked up her ACR.

Her eyes never touched Simon's form.

"I'm… fine. Just fine." A hand went up to her forehead, and then it dropped back to lay atop her mouth. "… fuck."

Both Simon and MacTavish took a step back. "Are you gonna be sick again?" the captain asked warily. "If you are, go find a—"

He didn't have time to finish before the ACR toppled to the ground once more, and the redheaded woman vanished behind an outcrop of wall to do her business.

Simon watched in slight amusement as Chemo scurried after her. He hoped, for the team's sake, that she did not require serious medical treatment, for that would only slow them down.

"Sir!" It was Meat, calling out to him from beside Rojas's assistant. Roach and Rocket now joined him, and the three were about ready to pick the fallen man up. "Where should we put him?"

"You're going to interrogate the bastard, right?" Royce wanted to know. "Shock him into submission?"

"You know me too well, mate," Simon responded, slipping his sunglasses back on. He strolled over to a metal garage door that protruded from the alley's brick wall. "Yeah, let's put him in 'ere. There's a car battery back by the alley entrance, and we can use that to get some answers." He sighed. "Maybe then we can find some _obedience_ in someone today."

MacTavish narrowed his eyes, and Simon sighed again. _Well, he sure detected that quickly. _"Go easy on the poor lass, Ghost. She's sick as a dog."

"She's here to follow orders, 'Tavish, despite the conditions. You know that. There should be no excuse!"

"That doesn't give you the right to castigate her."

"It bloody well _does_! I'm her XO. She disobeyed her captain's orders!"

MacTavish stepped right up to Simon and stared him down. "We know she messed up, Riley. We know. Just take it easy, all right? I need you to concentrate on the mission, not on your hatred towards the corporal."

When Simon held his tongue for a good minute, MacTavish pivoted around. "Meat! Roach!" he barked, breaking the silence. "Get him in the garage, now! We have to move if we want to secure Rojas!" With that, he strode away, leaving Simon to lean against the brick and contemplate what had been said.

_Hmm. Hate. I hate her. I hate that woman._ His hidden smirk tinged with contempt, Simon peered over in Queen's direction._ Oh, 'Tavish, you have no goddamn idea._

* * *

><p><strong>One more thing<strong>: Anonymous reviews are available again! Feel free to drop me a line!


	3. Chapter Three

**The Ghost that Haunted** **Me**

(Revamp)

A _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has favorited this story, added it (and me) to your alerts, and reviewed. Much appreciated! Hope you like this chapter; I wrote most of it while listening to the Terminator theme song on a loop, so I guess that's a good sign. Also, I finally figured out a way to have a woman join the Special Forces. I think it works well!

* * *

><p>Chapter Three.<p>

"_You can out-distance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside you._" - Rwandan Proverb

John hated bleating about his grievances in the middle of a battlefield. The act, rightly spurned by others in similar leadership positions, was unbefitting of him and severely destructive of his established persona. The particular brand of control he aimed for required a mind that was consistently on task and up to date with the current situation—not one so absorbed in recent mistakes that it seized any given moment to vent about them. He knew he was supposed to 'keep up appearances' for the sake of his men and not vault from the military hierarchy, but his brain had been marred by the earlier pursuit, and there was no way he could hamper himself or his thoughts any longer.

"I didn't think we'd lose anyone so quickly," he murmured, partially to himself, and partially to the masked man standing beside him. "We don't need KIAs at a time like this. We could've prevented that from happening."

If Ghost was perturbed by his ominous remark, he chose to ignore it, instead opting to keep a professional attitude towards the situation rather than emulating John's agitated behavior. He remained silent behind his skull-adorned balaclava; John wondered if his eyes were examining the dark-skinned man tied to the metal chair before them, listing off methods of torture that would make him talk. How many ways it could be done? John knew a handful, but without a doubt, Simon Riley knew more, and John wasn't sure he was ready to hear some of them.

"I'm thinking I'll send Royce, Meat, and Roach out to the favela, and have the others stay with us until we get information out of this muppet," John continued, changing the subject to ease his mind. "That way no one will be going alone, Queen can recuperate for a while, and we'll have a head start in finding Rojas. Is the car battery ready for use?"

Ghost nodded minutely. "Prepped and ready, sir. We'll get answers soon enough."

The man's bothered tone signaled a desperation to work faster, to advance further, and John appreciated that. Leave it to Ghost to break him of his cynical thoughts. The lieutenant was right; now was not the time to feel remorse about Driver's death, or even to reflect on the event that was surely on everyone's mind—the massacre in Moscow. August 13th would boil itself in violent infamy, but John would not lose himself in the incident's complexity. In order to redeem August 14th from facing possible ignominy like its day-earlier brother, Task Force 141 would have to acquire Alejandro Rojas and the vital data he possessed.

That was it. That was the reason Driver had died. That was the reason John and his team were in Rio de Janeiro, on the hunt for Vladimir Makarov's arms dealer.

For redemption's sake. For the reclamation of justice, of truth.

So America could sleep soundly once more.

It was a clear objective, but one not so deftly followed. The massacre had unleashed a worldwide savagery upon the United States; no country would dare step in and intervene when Russia sought revenge. The Task Force was alone, in that regard, off to refute the notion that Joseph Allen had been there to terminate over 200 Russian civilians. They had to prove it was an Ultranationalist plot, devised by Makarov to frame America, and by capturing Rojas, that target would be closer than ever.

_KIAs aren't for nothing,_ he told himself. _I don't like losing anyone, but that's why these boys put themselves up like this. That's why my team's here in the first place. Makarov needs to be unveiled as the true culprit. We cannot let those victims—or my men—die in vain._

Clearing his throat, John took a step towards the garage door. He was again conscious, again adrenalized by the appeal of victory. Even the musty smell that hung thick in the air was not enough to discourage him from the mission ahead. Everything was plain to him, set in front of him, apparent to him as he spoke to his lieutenant. "Get the cables hooked up while I update the team on our current situation. We can start the questioning in a minute." His fingers gripped the door's metal handle, hoisting it upward and letting the Brazilian sunlight hit his torso. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ghost dip his head and turn around, and John knew it was time.

"Roach!"

The sergeant, upon hearing his name, jogged over.

"Sir?"

With his fingers still gripped on the metal door's edge, John addressed the man from his spot on the landing. "This is gonna take some time. Go with Meat and Royce and check out the favela for any sign of Rojas. That's where this guy was headed."

Another soldier stepped forward. Edmund "Rocket" St. James, a former SAS with stubble that could rival John's, peered up at the captain from behind his navy green cap. "Where do you want the rest of us?"

"You, Chemo, and Queen will stay here until we've finished the interrogation. He could possibly give us Rojas's exact location, and that information could send us on a chase through the city. We'll need your support if we're to secure him before he escapes."

Satisfied, Rocket nodded. "Yes, sir."

Before he shut the garage door, John stole a final glance at Roach as the sergeant approached Meat and Royce and reiterated their instructions. Despite John's confidence in his men and the still ringing message of victory in his head, something told him he wouldn't be seeing them again.

* * *

><p>There was something off about her, and Ethan noticed right away. He first detected it in the way she refused his request to drink water. "Trust me," he'd said. "You need to stay hydrated. If you feel like vomiting again, then you can do so. But you have to try to get some fluids inside you if you want to feel better." His chin motioned in the direction of the bottle she held. "Go on. Just take a sip."<p>

She declined the order as swiftly as he'd made it.

"Please?" he tried again. This was odd. Usually she had no problem listening to him. "For me? You can't stay like this forever, Queen. You need to drink. Trust me, it'll soothe your stomach and throat, and right now, you need that more than anything." Lightly, he tapped the medic's patch on his vest. "See this? I was trained to know what's best for you. You might as well listen to me. They don't call me Chemo for nothing."

After a moment's hesitation, she lifted the bottle to her lips without saying a word, and then tipped it into her mouth. "'Atta girl," Ethan said, breaking into a relieved grin. "Thank you." At last, she was compliant. Perhaps there was hope for her. Maybe they wouldn't have to call in backup to retrieve her.

The two sat there against the brick wall for a good minute, Ethan fiddling with his M9, Queen chugging away at her water, and both listening to the faint sounds of the interrogation occurring in the garage nearby. The man's screams of pain were muffled and unpredictable, pitted alongside the toned, relatively calm voices of the Task Force's commanding officers. In a way, the two reoccurring noises clashed, and in another, they coordinated with sounds of Rio de Janeiro around them. _An ironic harmony between a man and his city_, Ethan thought ruefully. _You don't see that every day._

Finally coming to notice Queen's reticence, the medic chose to break the ice with an observation he'd made earlier. He'd never intended to bring it up in the first place, but his mouth overpowered his brain, and suddenly the statement came gushing out.

"I've never heard him say that many words to you before," he remarked.

The woman beside him gave him a bemused look and lowered the bottle. When she spoke, her voice was hesitant and unusually soft. "What are you talking about?"

"Ghost," Ethan responded, as if it was obvious. "He usually drops you snide one-liners every now and then, never a full-scale assault. He finds something to bicker with you about, and you yield to him." Ethan paused, thinking. "You've never let him get away with it before. I know you're feeling a bit queasy, but I didn't think you'd ever let him scold you like that."

Queen promptly returned to the water bottle. She said nothing in response to his comment, and Ethan took that as a silent plead for him to hold his tongue. He would oblige, but just to make certain… "Do you not want to talk about it?" Ethan tried. "I mean, the entire team heard about 'the incident,' but we all assumed—"

"_Incident_?"

Ethan flinched and cursed. _Bad move, Ethan. Got to learn to stop while you're ahead. _"You… weren't actually supposed to know that we heard about the fight." He scratched the back his neck with his pistol and smiled sheepishly at his friend. "Sorry."

"It's… all right," she mumbled, blinking slowly, as if in deep contemplation. When she aimed her gaze at the opposite alley wall, and then at the visible rooftops, Ethan could have swore he saw her lips tremble. "How much… how much did you hear?"

"MacTavish didn't tell us much. Ghost was assigned to break you of your hand-to-hand combat fear, and it ended… poorly."

"Poorly?"

"Yeah. Is that not a good word for it?"

"No… I just…" she wavered, biting the inside of her cheek, "… I just forgot about the whole deal. That's all. It hasn't come to mind lately. I haven't thought about it in a while."

Ethan returned to his M9 in his lap, trying to evade the conversation's discomfort. "Completely understandable. I see why you'd want to forget an event like that."

"Chemo?" Indistinctly, the woman went on, and the medic had to strain his ear to hear her. "Do you think…"—here she paused again, narrowing her eyes and looking quite thoughtful—"… that Ghost _hates_ me? I know he just lost his shit when I didn't follow orders, but… does he _hate_ me?"

He knew she would ask that question, and Ethan regretted the answer he was going to give her. Of course the man hated her. Ghost had been utterly opposed to the idea of having a woman join the team; he'd vocalized his opinion quite insistently to each soldier. Ever since the events in the Middle East in 2011 (resulting in the death of around 30,000 U.S. Marines) and the relax of America's ground combat exclusion policy as a result, women had been given the ability to serve in more military positions than before—including, on rare occasions, certain Special Ops groups. Had that not been enough, Captain MacTavish had _personally_ brought forth Queen's name from his visit to Firebase Phoenix two years ago, suggesting that a female Army Ranger would make an interesting bonus to the Task Force. From then on, Ghost seemed to spend every waking moment making Queen's life with the team a living hell. He'd scoffed at her records, snickered at the way she held a gun, rolled his eyes at her fear of close combat. Even when she began warming up to certain team members (Ethan included), Ghost sneered and stuck to calling the woman a whore.

It was more a determination of _how_ _much_ the lieutenant hated Queen, and not _if_.

As Chemo opened his mouth to speak his thoughts, most likely partnering the truth with gentle phrases and words so as not to offend the woman, a sharp sound ripped through the air and caused both the medic and the corporal to jolt with alarm.

"Queen! Chemo! Get up!" It was Rocket, his voice rising above his footsteps as he drilled across the pavement. He'd been waiting nearby, gun in hand, responding to the occasional radio chatter calls since Roach, Meat, and Royce had left for the favela, and now he looked frantic, frantic enough to make Ethan and Queen stand immediately. "We've got Rojas's position from the assistant! We gotta go _now_!"

"What happened?" Ethan wanted to know, grabbing his UMP45 from his back and clutching it tightly in his hands. "Where are the others?"

"What's going on?" Queen asked, her feminine voice out of place within the chaos.

When Rocket finally reached them, he paused, glancing between the two soldiers with an odd look in his eye. "Meat's dead, Royce is down, and Roach is by himself in the favela, being ambushed left and right. We have to go."

MacTavish and Ghost reappeared from behind the garage door at the back of the alleyway and began charging towards them. "He's heading west along the upper levels of the favela!" the captain was yelling into his radio. "We'll keep him from doubling back on our side—keep going and cut him off at the top!" He stopped to catch his breath, diverting his gaze to Ethan. "Chemo, I want you to go into the favela and find Royce. He's been hit, but it sounds like he could make it. Go find him. We'll meet up with you when we have Rojas. The rest of you—follow me!"

Ethan saw terror in Queen's eyes when MacTavish announced they would split up. For some reason, she looked as if the captain had just declared she deserved the death penalty. Her jaw, which had been so tightly locked in place before, slackened, and instantly, just as the rest of the team headed out the alley and the medic started the other way, she grabbed Ethan's arm.

"N-_No_, Chemo, _why_—"

"Queen, stop!" Ethan hated to be this mean, but the woman was acting so strangely, he had no choice. He shook her off and nudged her in the direction of the others, once, then more forcefully the second time. "Go! I'll meet up with you later!"

What was wrong with her? Why was she so desperate to keep him close? Was it because he'd just spent the past few minutes with her, making sure she was feeling all right? Did she still want to hear his opinion on Ghost?

Whatever it was, Ethan didn't wait to find out. The medic turned around and ran for the favela, knowing that the sooner he reached Royce, the higher chance he had to survive. He didn't look back, so he never saw how long Queen stood there, watching him, but he could have sworn that as he left, he heard the woman choke out and begin to cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Note: <strong>My first upload of this chapter was missing about 200 of the chapter's words, so if you read this right as I uploaded it, MacTavish's section probably didn't make any sense. Sorry about that!


	4. Chapter Four

**The Ghost that Haunted Me**

(Revamp)**  
><strong>

A _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_ Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B

Author's Note: Have to apologize for the numerous Point of View changes in this chapter, but it's all for good measure. I'm really enjoying playing with these particular characters. I hope I'm doing them justice. The Roach I'm using in my story is incredibly difficult to write, but I think he's turning out well so far, and Chemo is _so_ fun to mess with!

* * *

><p>Chapter Four.<p>

"_Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. __This is his grief_." - Henry David Thoreau

He called it "death's drink," for it commonly besieged the bodies of those who had passed or those near demise, as if the person's final act of sacrilege was to drench themselves in booze. Victims would be bathed in the carmine substance, the red trails sticky and spattered about the ground, pooled beside the body, prints tapering in the distance. Around their wounds persisted a lighter, dryer crimson drink, sucked from the veins, where eyes drew and wrappings situated—if, of course, there was any chance for a last minute miracle. If the individual had already expired, voids clung at their eyes, silence tinged their mouths, and skin refused to breathe, but if they lived, blankness and muteness was always creeping silently in the shadow where they rested. Such characteristics were traditional, ordinary qualities of a battlefield death, as Ethan was perfectly aware, but seeing them regularly held no meaning to his lunging stomach and disgruntled heart. There was no getting used to death's drink, no ability to swallow down the scent of decease in the air. Even he, the second of two esteemed medical officers, could not stand the smell of blood, the sight of motionless, or the empty carcass that once held a good friend. The liquor that blackened the bodies and the result of its desecration would never gain a universal toleration, and Ethan was certain of it.

When he neared the lifeless form, its back hunched against a dirtied trashcan, staining the rusty metal a dark red, Ethan promptly began to experience that customary feeling of dread pool in his throat. His jaw quivered when he saw the bullet wound—a sharp, circular perforation at the crown of the figure's head; the skin about it resembled the trashcan, for it, too, was drizzled in dried blood. Far above his head, painting the outer wall of a nearby building in a hectic, tribal manner, a splash of the same red signified the location of the original shot. And as Ethan's gaze traveled further down, grazing across the man's matted facial hair and hanging neck, the repercussions of creating a genial friendship with Meat had Ethan praying it was only an illusion. Meat had been with the team for three years, symbolically standing in the wings as a portrait of obedience and correct military conduct. How could that be him lying there, swamped in dark alcohol?

The scene, as sickening as it was, was not the worst Ethan had come across in his few years he'd been a medical officer, but he still managed to roll his eyes back in disgust and cringe. The death of a team member never came lightly to anyone. Surely Captain MacTavish was grieving as he and the others trekked through the city. Surely Ethan was not the only one replaying scenes in his head of their moments back in Stavropol—_with_ Meat and Driver still animate, still joining them in the mess hall and sharing discussions of guns and protocol. Surely they all recalled the moment when Royce and Taco swapped Meat's clothes with shirts and pants that were two sizes too small—

"Royce."

Ethan dripped the name from his tongue as his eyes steadily widened.

"Damn."

* * *

><p>There were two sides to him. Granted, both resided in the same solidified body, both functioned beneath a stringent moral code, and both had emerged at similar times, but when it came to fighting, when it came to logistics and strategies, their comparability ceased. It could not be referred to as bipolar, for there was no change in mood between the different sides; when one was adrenalized with the thrill of battle, so was the other. It was easier to define them as two halves of one whole, two prominent voices crying out simultaneously in hopes that their stance would be obeyed.<p>

On one end, there was Gary. Gary Sanderson, former member of the Canadian Special Operations Regiment (or CSOR), former inhabitant of Quebec; Gary, a young, slender man with slight muscles and an unruly head of dark brown hair; Gary, a rational thinker, a good friend of the lieutenant's, and a well-rounded soldier. On the other end, Roach dominated the scene. Roach had reached the rank of sergeant, becoming a man who saw everything and feared nothing. His opinions often dominated those belonging to Gary because of this considerable factor. When it came to making difficult judgments in the midst of battle, Roach effortlessly triumphed over the more cautious Gary Sanderson, and for the most part, this decision-making system was flawless. Even more impressive, Roach had been so named for his apparent inability to be killed, and that was enough to impress General Shepherd and Captain MacTavish, two men eager to secure a strong task force in the wake of Imran Zakhaev's reign of terror.

In late 2011, Gary "Roach" Sanderson departed his home in Canada for the Task Force's base in Stavropol, Russia. Five years later, that same Gary "Roach" Sanderson was in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, sprinting past hordes of angry militia members and making every effort not to get shot.

_How quickly things change._

He paused beside a crumbling brown wall, ramming his shoulder against the plaster and letting his form lean, hang, breathe beside its dilapidated surface. A cough seized his throat at the new surge of air, but he held it back, quieted the disruptive noise, hoping no one would hear or see him. The last thing he wanted to do was catch the militia's attention again. He had no desire to become like Meat, or Royce.

_Damn._ Gary stabbed his teeth into his bottom lip and closed his eyes. He wasn't supposed to feel guilty for leaving them there. Meat's death and Royce's (fatal?) injuries were not going to slow him down, despite the nagging feeling inside of him to think that way. Gary might've went back and found them, but Roach wasn't allowed to, and Roach had more control than Gary. It was Roach's name the men had called when they'd gone down; yet, it was his counterpart that suffered the pain of abandoning them—

_No. You didn't abandon them._ Gary opened his eyes as Roach spoke to him, scolding._ Your orders were to meet the rest of the team at the top of the favela, despite any difficulties you encountered. Meat and Royce did what they had to do. They helped. Now, it's your turn._

_I wasn't supposed to lose them that quickly,_ his other half countered. _And Royce is still alive! He called out to me through the radio! He was in so much pain. I could go back and—_

_If you go back, the entire mission could be in jeopardy. You have to corner Rojas for MacTavish. You have to make sure he doesn't try to escape on your side. If he escapes, think of how detrimental that would be to the efforts against Makarov. Think of how hard it will be to secure information on him. And Captain MacTavish was sending Chemo to retrieve them. It isn't your job to worry about them. _This_ is your job, Gary. Do it. Do it well._

Gary wanted to protest. He wanted to break the traditional pattern of protocol and subordination that had come with every waking moment of his days. He wanted to act irrationally for once in his life, wanted to step beyond Roach's iron jurisdiction and behave as himself. He had been the one to hear Meat's final cries for help, see the man collapse; he had witnessed Royce's panic, his fear for his friend, his desperation to stanch Meat's lethal wound before it was too late, and then his own fall, his screams ripping through the air and piercing louder than the gunshots around him.

There was a sort of glamour in the action, breaking away from what Roach demanded. It was a tempting appeal, begging for the bond to be fractured, and it would most definitely be worth it. Yet, no matter how hard Gary tried, he couldn't refuse Roach and his warnings.

With a bitter response to his better half's statement souring his mouth, Gary dug his teeth so deeply into his lip that a small trail of coppery blood emerged. Painfully, Gary wiped the substance away with his arm, also coming back to mop up the sweat on his forehead in one quick swipe. No matter how much he hated it, he had to leave the soldiers behind.

Roach, like always, was _right_.

Sighing, Gary heaved himself from the building's shelter and plunged back into action. His finger flicked atop the trigger at an impulsive rate; now, thanks to Roach's lecture, picking off the enemy was as natural as breathing. He didn't care any longer—there was no remorse as the red liquid from his victim's bodies seeped against his boots. Because Roach knew better, Gary knew better, and that was enough for the young man to continue his storm of the favela. No matter the amount of dirt and bloodstains imprinting his clothes, no matter the reek of the fetid air, no matter the wave upon wave of enemies rushing to dispatch him, Gary carried a level head.

For Royce. For Meat.

He was about halfway up the hill when a familiar voice called through his radio. The interruption was abrupt, terminating a particularly gruesome wave of gunfire from Gary's rifle, and Gary flinched at the noise.

"_Roach_!"

Again, Gary paused beside an outcrop of wall, this time letting his back meet the fragmenting plaster. It was the team's medic that called him, perhaps greeting him with good news about Royce's physical state, perhaps announcing that he'd successfully secured Meat and Driver's bodies…

"Chemo?"

"_Good, you're still alive. Just checking to make sure I didn't have another body to find in this mess. Where are you? Almost to the top?_"

Gary blanched. _Another body?_ He ignored the man's questions and instead intruded with one of his own in response to the news. "Royce… didn't make it?"

The medical officer sighed heavily, his mood blatant behind the gesture. "_No, just found him. He's still with us… barely. Meat's dead, though._ _The scene's gruesome. Pisses me off. Thought I could save that smart bastard. He didn't have to die here._"

"Neither did Driver. You find him, too?"

"_Planning on securing him later. I don't want to abandon Royce right now. I called in a CASEVAC to retrieve him and the bodies, but something's wrong. No one answered. All the lines are down. I'm worried. I'm not sure Royce will last very long without serious medical attention; he's not holding up very well. And, it also makes me wonder… if we can't contact anyone, then we can't get an exfil once we've finished with Rojas…_"

"Shit." Swallowing thickly, the sergeant slid a hand across his face. That was never a good sign. Poor communications with command would only bring disorder to the situation. "Have you told the captain this? I'm sure he'd like to know."

"_No. I wanted to check on you first to make sure I didn't have anything else to worry about. You can tell MacTavish when you reach him; I'm too busy trying to keep Royce from dying._"

"He's… that bad?"

"_Shot to the chest, a few inches away from his heart. I think the bullet's stuck in his lung, 'cause he's having a hard time breathing._" Chemo trailed off, his voice diminishing rapidly. "_There's only so much I can do for him without a CASEVAC._ _Otherwise, he's gonna die._"

Gary had feared this. Somehow, he'd known the departure from Brazil would not be easy. A clear sky and faulty dispatch was just enough to eliminate the entire team if they did, in fact, get caught by the enemy. "I'll… inform 'Tavish of the problem when I see him," he managed, lost in thought. "Right now, focus on keeping Royce alive. Once we have Rojas, I'll come find you in the favela, and we can sort this out."

"_Sounds good. Hurry._ _We might be down another member by then._"

Roach didn't mind the ominous statement, but Gary did. "Fuck, Chemo, don't be saying that stuff. Don't jinx it." He rested his head against the wall. "Don't jinx it."

"_I'm just being realistic, Gary, calm down. Well, I gotta go. See you soon. Good luck._"

"Good luck to you, too."

Defeated, Gary glanced over his shoulder, peeking out from behind the wall to observe the commotion manifesting nearby; a rabble of militia members were rallying, crying out and ducking behind structures, ready to attack, waiting for Gary to reappear. He heaved a thick sigh at the sight, disliking the odds of survival, and reloaded his weapon. Chemo had stopped speaking, guns had stopped firing, and it was time for him to return to the game, whether Gary liked it or not.

* * *

><p>She didn't notice him. He wasn't located within her peripheral vision as she stared down the disfigured roadway, frozen with alarm as a sea of enemies stormed forward. Though he punctured the air like the point of a skyscraper protruding against the clouds, he was a tiny mark, a tiny risk compared to the looming militia that threatened to overtake the Task Force. No one saw him. No one took the time to consider the possible weapons he held, or the danger he posed as he heaved a slender object into his arms and sighted-up—<p>

"Look out!"

There was the sound of a rocket—or something similar—taking off into the air. Instinctively, Mckinley shielded her eyes from the sun and glanced upward, curious to see if someone had fired a flare. Was that the sound it made when it went off? Who would be shooting a flare in the middle of the day?

_What the heck is going on?_ Mckinley pivoted around, searching for the source of the noise. _Was that our flare? Are we really in that much danger? I know I wasn't playing alongside MacTavish and Ghost while they were chasing Rojas, but I don't recall anything about a flare…_

And then she was on the ground, driven downward by a heavy, muscular body drenched in sweat and scented of blood. An explosion vibrated the air as the rocket collided with the pavement nearby, and the whole world seemed to shake in fear. Rubble and ashes blackened her vision and her senses as Mckinley coughed, wheezed, wiped the soot from her eyes, and the figure, hunched above her, began to scream.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Because of the close proximity, Ghost's accent-tipped voice became a raging siren in her ears, triggering more of Mckinley's fear to drip down her cheeks. His words rose above the continual gunfire in the background. "Do I have to do _everything_? That rocket could've fuckin' _killed_ you!" His gloved fingers fisted the grains of concrete beside her head, and he stood, drawing himself from the ground and off of his knees. His hidden gaze, after glancing back to find MacTavish and Rocket still fighting in the street, locked onto Mckinley's limp body. An invisible hatred seethed from his balaclava's fabric. "Pull your shit together, Queen. That's a damn order."

Mckinley's lips trembled. She pressed herself harder into the ground. _I didn't know any better _she wanted to cry._ I've been brought into a world I honestly know nothing about. I can't fire a weapon. I can't fight bad guys. I'm useless here. When it's a video game, I'm good, but in real life? I'm dead. Don't hate me, Ghost. Please. You're a cool guy. I actually like you, a lot. I've studied your life, researched why you're so reserved. You can't… really hate me… though Chemo might've thought so. But I hope you don't. _Briefly, her thoughts halted as Mckinley shut her eyes. _I just want to know why you keep calling me Queen. Then I'll go home. I promise._

Ghost, coincidentally, sneered with disgust, as if he'd read her mind.

"Get up."

Wide-eyed, Mckinley remained frozen. Had he somehow heard what she'd been thinking? Why would he—

"Get _up_!"

It was fear that made her obey. Debris caked her back and arms when she stood, and before she could wipe herself clean, she was straightaway pinned against the nearest wall.

"I will say this once, corporal," the masked man hissed. "Pull one more stunt that endangers the team and you will be _removed_ from the task force… _permanently_." Perhaps to further emphasize his point, his palms reached up, meeting the areas of plaster beside her head, securing her in one spot. "Do I make myself clear?"

Unable to force words from her mouth, Mckinley tried for a nod.

"Glad we understand each other." His blue eyes visible behind his sunglasses, Mckinley watched as the irises dilated, revealing deep thought, and swiftly—almost curiously—his pensive gaze dropped…

_What in the world?_

* * *

><p>Simon put his fist through the wall and stormed back to the fight before anything else could be said. The way Queen had been looking at him brought back that sickening, recollecting tumor in the pit of his stomach, déjà vu clouding his senses and a passionate hatred curling his toes. They'd fought like that before, in each other's faces, voices rising to immeasurable heights, spouting maledictions with ardent fervor… but something about the earlier incident had Simon's head reeling and his nails biting through his gloves to prick his palms. It had his eyes lowering, wide, his eyebrows raising high behind the frame of his mask, his lips pursing, mimicking the skeleton's crooked smile.<p>

He hated her. There was no doubt about that. The woman destroyed his team's espirit de corps, provided a distraction from the men's duties, and interfered with the sane, equal balance the Task Force had established previously. Simon could recall hundreds of altercations between he and the fire-tongued woman before then, before their mission to Brazil, proving his point. But now? All of a sudden, the woman was weak. Dumb. Unknowing of military decorum. She vomited. Cried. At least before, she'd been a decent soldier. Now, she was senseless, and completely unwilling to defend herself when he rebuked her.

Something was wrong.

Was that why Simon caught himself revisiting the terrified face she'd given him as he'd pinned her to the wall? Was that feeling of déjà vu paired with some sense of guilt for the woman who'd done nothing to counter back?

Simon gripped his gun and shot a man across the way to prove himself wrong. It was a clean shot, meeting the spot just below the enemy's left shoulder, triggering a wail and a fall.

The sensation of killing was easy. The feeling of hatred was easy.

_So, no. It's not guilt._


End file.
